tone said it was all right. Leo’s face said something in-between. The chords shook the room, causing toes to tap, heads to nod. That riff had been used in everything from real folk blues to burger commercials. It was a deeply rutted thing, second nature to rock and rollers and blues players alike, as basic as the missionary position, but like that tradition also, oh, so serviceable.
Leo stood with his legs apart and slung his head back in a grimace, deviating from the riff by ripping into the strings with a series of quick runs up and down the frets. It wasn’t flawless, and it wasn’t the best he could do, but it would work. He let out a big sigh and wiped his hair out of his eyes with the cast- encased hand.
“What happened?”
“I fought the wall and the wall won.”
“Was that after you were up on top of the American Bank building howling like a gut-shot dog?” I asked.
His grin died an ugly death. He unscrewed the top off a quart of Jack Daniel’s, took a big slug, and set it on top of his amp. “Nope,” he said. “It was before.”
A couple of the techs had gathered around and they nodded and elbowed each other, impressed. They looked fresh out of college and, having been weaned on the excesses of the Stones and Led Zeppelin, they thought they were witnessing rock and roll attitude incarnate. But they were nervous, looking up at the studio clock every couple of seconds, then looking back at me and the empty spot on stage right where Ray’s saxophone stand waited like a bride at the altar.
And then Ray sauntered in, cocky and sharp as Dick Tracy’s jaw—straw racetrack hat, houndstooth suit, wing tips, black- and-white thick and thin socks. Every hair in place, his mustache actually looking as if it were drawn with a fine tip felt pen. His saxophone case was at his side and Kate was behind him, on high heels in a Chanel-esque suit and pillbox hat and tortoiseshell Ray-Bans, cigarette smoldering at a right angle between two black-gloved fingers, around her neck a round patent leather purse on a chain big enough to hold one large pill or maybe a silver dollar, but not both.
He put the case down, pointed to a chair out of camera range for Kate, and wrinkled his nose as if it had just detected a trace of drugstore cologne. He looked at the cameras and techs, then me. “Are you off the hook yet, Martin?”
“Any minute now,” I said. “Once they get the lab results . . I let it trail off. Ray was smirking with amusement at Billy’s casual green rayon shirt, the usual pack of Kools showing through the translucent material. As Billy rapped his snare like a judge banging a gavel, Ray gave him a wink, then glanced toward Leo, who was turning around from his amp, tuning up. When he saw the cast on Leo’s hand, the perpetual sneer seemed to freeze in place, his lip quivering slightly, as if he were having a stroke.
“Leo,” I said.
“Let’s just get on with it,” snapped Ray, obviously irritated beyond any reason that I could see.
“We waited for you, Ray,” I said. “You think we could wait for Leo to tune up?”
He regarded me coldly. “What you do with your time is your business. Right now it’s my time, and no one’s going to waste it, especially, you know.” He paused and gave me a strange look. “Where’s your bass, Martin?”
We finally got started. Stupid, stressed-out me: My P-bass was at police headquarters, a realization that was awful in both its timing and implications. The band members groaned a bit, but they were pretty understanding. Lasko had questioned each of them since yesterday. I had a spare, a Danelectro, but it was at home and we were already late. It turned out that one of the studio interns had a Gibson EBO-1 in the trunk of his car and he loaned it to me. Whereas a Fender Precision represents perfection in style and function, an EBO does not. Either burpy and muddy at best or muted and untrue at worst, it would have to do.
We decided on a song and proceeded to
Leo stood with his legs apart and slung his head back in a grimace, deviating from the riff by ripping into the strings with a series of quick runs up and down the frets. It wasn’t flawless, and it wasn’t the best he could do, but it would work. He let out a big sigh and wiped his hair out of his eyes with the cast- encased hand.
“What happened?”
“I fought the wall and the wall won.”
“Was that after you were up on top of the American Bank building howling like a gut-shot dog?” I asked.
His grin died an ugly death. He unscrewed the top off a quart of Jack Daniel’s, took a big slug, and set it on top of his amp. “Nope,” he said. “It was before.”
A couple of the techs had gathered around and they nodded and elbowed each other, impressed. They looked fresh out of college and, having been weaned on the excesses of the Stones and Led Zeppelin, they thought they were witnessing rock and roll attitude incarnate. But they were nervous, looking up at the studio clock every couple of seconds, then looking back at me and the empty spot on stage right where Ray’s saxophone stand waited like a bride at the altar.
And then Ray sauntered in, cocky and sharp as Dick Tracy’s jaw—straw racetrack hat, houndstooth suit, wing tips, black- and-white thick and thin socks. Every hair in place, his mustache actually looking as if it were drawn with a fine tip felt pen. His saxophone case was at his side and Kate was behind him, on high heels in a Chanel-esque suit and pillbox hat and tortoiseshell Ray-Bans, cigarette smoldering at a right angle between two black-gloved fingers, around her neck a round patent leather purse on a chain big enough to hold one large pill or maybe a silver dollar, but not both.
He put the case down, pointed to a chair out of camera range for Kate, and wrinkled his nose as if it had just detected a trace of drugstore cologne. He looked at the cameras and techs, then me. “Are you off the hook yet, Martin?”
“Any minute now,” I said. “Once they get the lab results . . I let it trail off. Ray was smirking with amusement at Billy’s casual green rayon shirt, the usual pack of Kools showing through the translucent material. As Billy rapped his snare like a judge banging a gavel, Ray gave him a wink, then glanced toward Leo, who was turning around from his amp, tuning up. When he saw the cast on Leo’s hand, the perpetual sneer seemed to freeze in place, his lip quivering slightly, as if he were having a stroke.
“Leo,” I said.
“Let’s just get on with it,” snapped Ray, obviously irritated beyond any reason that I could see.
“We waited for you, Ray,” I said. “You think we could wait for Leo to tune up?”
He regarded me coldly. “What you do with your time is your business. Right now it’s my time, and no one’s going to waste it, especially, you know.” He paused and gave me a strange look. “Where’s your bass, Martin?”
We finally got started. Stupid, stressed-out me: My P-bass was at police headquarters, a realization that was awful in both its timing and implications. The band members groaned a bit, but they were pretty understanding. Lasko had questioned each of them since yesterday. I had a spare, a Danelectro, but it was at home and we were already late. It turned out that one of the studio interns had a Gibson EBO-1 in the trunk of his car and he loaned it to me. Whereas a Fender Precision represents perfection in style and function, an EBO does not. Either burpy and muddy at best or muted and untrue at worst, it would have to do.
We decided on a song and proceeded to
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